


Storge

by FullmetalChords



Series: In Regards to Love [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Friendships, Four Kinds of Love, Gen, Podium Family, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/pseuds/FullmetalChords
Summary: “So, what are you working on?” he hears Katsuki ask conversationally, once he’s pulled up a chair to Yuri’s table. “Trig?”Yuri leans back in his chair, roughly brushing his bangs out of his face.“Yeah,” he mutters reluctantly, when it becomes apparent he’s going to have to talk to him. Still, he pulls the packet closer, curling around it almost protectively. He doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to tell Katsuki to butt out. A year ago, when he’d first met the guy, a simple glare had been more than enough to send him cowering, but now…? Now, Katsuki is used to him. He doesn’t coo over him like Mila, or mercilessly tease him like Victor; but at some point, Katsuki has grown comfortable around Yuri.The thought that he can no longer intimidate his biggest competition makes him twitch.--Or, five times Yuuri helped Yuri, and one time Yuri returned the favor. (Yuuri+Yuri friendship, background Victuuri)





	

_Storge (n): Natural or instinctual affection, as of a parent for a child._

 

\--  


1.

 

Yuri _hates_ math.

He hasn’t set foot in a traditional classroom since he was nine and moved to St. Petersburg to skate. But that fact hasn’t set him free from the awful, sucking vortex that is _school_. Private tutors come to the rink five times a week to interrupt his training with _classes_ ; a surly-faced government official comes to Lilia’s house once every two months to make him take idiotic _tests_. Making sure Yuri hasn’t fallen too far behind his peers.

Like Yuri Plisetsky, fifteen-year-old Grand Prix gold medalist, a world championship within his grasp, has any peers.

But anyway. It isn’t, he might admit under pain of death, utter torture all the time. He’s good at English thanks to his international skating career, and his English tutor has lots of colorful stories to share. Some of the chemistry experiments make things blow up, which is always fun. And while his history tutor is dull as anything, giving him the glossy version of Russian history that’s approved by the state, there’s _just enough_ there to make it interesting, sending Yuri on late-night trips down the internet rabbit hole to devour the more sordid stories that his tutor would never breathe a word of.

But none of that changes this one fact: math is the _worst_. 

He’s sitting in the break room at the rink, pulling faces at the latest packet his math tutor had left with him. This whole trigonometry thing had barely made sense when his tutor was there explaining it to him. Now, the numbers and symbols (he’d just gotten used to Romanized letters in his math, and now they were adding _Greek ones?!_ ) swim before his eyes in some sort of white haze. His temper, already simmering low since he’d missed the last hour of free-skate practice to go to school, flares at the thought of losing even more rink time trying to get this work done before his next class.

Then again, Yuri will be DAMNED if he lets fucking _triangles_ get the better of him.

Employing a Kazakh curse word Otabek had taught him, Yuri pulls the math work closer to him, resting his chin on the table and squinting at the first problem, six inches from his nose. He scowls at the diagram accompanying the question, which is asking him to determine how long one of the sides is, and why can’t he just use a ruler? Who fucking cares how long this triangle’s vertex, or whatever, is, when he’s _this close_ to being able to add a quad lutz to his roster? For that matter, why should he bother to learn math at all when his phone comes with a calculator app?

Yuri lets his head thunk against the table in frustration, pencil shaking in his grip. There’s a tiny _snap_ as he presses it too hard into the paper, and of _course_ the lead is broken now, of _course_ , it’s all the world conspiring against him to trap him here, doing MATH, while the European Championships creep closer and his competitors keep getting better and the ticking time bomb of puberty lurks in Yuri’s body, threatening to uproot everything he’s worked so hard to turn his skating into…

Yuri is barely aware of his own roar of frustration, of sending the pencil flying across the room.

He is, unfortunately, more aware of that pencil hitting Yuuri Katsuki square in the face.

Katsuki flinches when the eraser butt hits him right between the eyebrows, letting out a little yelp of surprise; but he’s otherwise unaffected, stooping to pick up the pencil.

“There you are,” he says, offering Yuri a polite smile, as though he hasn’t just assaulted him with some kind of math-based projectile. “Victor and I were going to grab some lunch before afternoon practice. Do you want to join us?”

“No!” is Yuri’s barked response, snatching his broken pencil out of Katsuki’s hand. “I don’t have _time_ to third wheel your date, Katsudon. I’ll get some crap from the vending machine while I get through this—this—“

He can’t find words strong enough to describe the hated math packet, still lying innocently on the table. At least, not in English, the only language he and Katsuki share. (They’re close enough not to need surnames, but Yuri still stubbornly refuses to call the other man by his first name, even in his own head. He _refuses_.)

“There’s my second-favorite Yuri!” That perky voice comes from somewhere behind Katsuki, and soon enough Victor’s come up behind him, wrapping his arms around the other Yuuri’s waist and tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Come eat with us, Yurio! You have to!”

Yuri feels his jaw tighten at the silly nickname, but he’s long given up the idea that Victor might drop it.

“Go without me,” he bursts, waving the two of them away with a flick of his wrist. “I’m… busy.” In irritation, he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, attempting to block them out entirely. If he can just concentrate for a minute, maybe he can at least attempt these problems, then wait for the tutor’s lecture about all the ways he’s fucked it up when he meets him again next week. Though both ideas – both the thought of getting this lesson yet again, _and_ the idea of doing the work at all right now – make him want to gag. 

He’s so wrapped up in resharpening his pencil, in trying to work out how to actually do this math shit, that he misses the details of the murmured conversation Victor and Katsuki are having several meters from him. He hears footsteps recede through the door, and he sighs, glad to be left to struggle through this in peace.

A screech of chair legs across the floor. Or maybe not.

“So, what are you working on?” he hears Katsuki ask conversationally, once he’s pulled up a chair to Yuri’s table. “Trig?”

Yuri leans back in his chair, roughly brushing his bangs out of his face.

“Yeah,” he mutters reluctantly, when it becomes apparent he’s going to have to talk to him. Still, he pulls the packet closer, curling around it almost protectively. He doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to tell Katsuki to butt out. A year ago, when he’d first met the guy, a simple glare had been more than enough to send him cowering, but now…? Now, Katsuki is _used_ to him. He doesn’t coo over him like Mila, or mercilessly tease him like Victor; but at some point, Katsuki has grown comfortable around Yuri.

The thought that he can no longer intimidate his biggest competition makes him twitch.

“You know,” Katsuki says after several moments of silently watching Yuri mutter to himself and erase half-done equations, “I majored in finance and hospitality, so I ended up taking a lot of math classes in college. If you need someone to check your work…”

This makes Yuri sit up, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt back just a little.

“Really?” he asks, curious in spite of himself. He can’t imagine dealing with the rigorous training schedule of competitive skating while going to college, let alone doing _two programs_ the way some people do in American universities. It’s hard enough keeping on top of the workload for his facsimile of secondary school.

“Yeah, well.” The familiar bashful expression appears on Katsuki’s face. “When I was eighteen, I had this idea that I’d help run the onsen after I retired from skating. Or I thought I’d be better able to support my parents if I became a banker instead…” A strange sentimental expression lands on his face. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time. This year’s changed so much for me.”

“Ha,” Yuri says, not sure what else to add. “So… so you understand all this triangle bullshit, then. Can you-“ The words _help me_ sound pathetic even in his own head. “…Just tell me what I’m doing wrong, Katsudon.”

And so Katsuki spends the next hour reviewing the basics of trig with him, patiently explaining the concepts and teaching him easy ways to check his work. It’s not like with Yuri’s regular tutors, most of whom seem either unimpressed or terrified by his hostile attitude; Katsuki lets him ask all the questions he wants, and is patient when Yuri inevitably gets frustrated. For one weird moment, Yuri finds himself wishing that his tutor were more like Katsuki. Then all this bullshit might be tolerable.

Victor comes back after about twenty minutes with soup and sandwiches from the café down the street, and the three of them eat together while Katsuki keeps helping Yuri. Yuri keeps half a suspicious eye on Victor, not wanting him to pull any of his usual funny business; but Victor seems to be behaving himself, content to scroll his Instagram rather than attempt to “help” with Yuri’s math homework. Katsuki’s free hand finds Victor’s, their fingers tangling together while Katsuki explains that no, Yuri, sines and cosines aren’t actually complementary.

By the end of the lunch hour, Yuri is shocked to find he actually has a reasonable grasp of what he’s doing. He’s not finished with the work by any means, but at least now he has half a prayer of being able to do the rest by himself at home.

“Hell, Katsudon,” he says, shaking his head, “looks like you’re good for something after all.”

Katsuki just smiles, taking a long sip of tea from his takeout cup. Victor, on the other hand, is _mortally offended_.

“How dare you, Yurio!” Victor gasps, finally dragged away from his Twitter feed now that they aren’t talking about math. “My Yuuri is good for _everything._ ” He hooks his arm around Katsuki’s waist, pulling him close as he starts to expound on everything Katsuki is good at, his talents on the rink and skills around their house and even (shudder) a few lines about Katsuki’s _stamina_ that have both Yuris turning crimson.

Passing math had better be worth this.

 

\--

 

2.

 

The month between Russian Nationals and the European Championships has been a blur of training, ballet, skating, and more training. Yuri had handily won gold at Nationals (not that he’d expected anything less), while Victor snagged the bronze, falling just short of Georgi for once in his career. And for all his mooning that _of_ course _I couldn’t beat you, Yurio, not with my Yuuri halfway around the world from me!_ , Yuri knows the truth. 

Not even the great Victor Nikiforov can leave the sport for eight months and come back at the top of his game. All that time, Yuri’s been working his ass off for eight hours a day, every day, while Victor’s been pruning in an onsen. His forms are still beautiful, but his stamina’s taken a big hit, and this season’s programs are still rough, to say the least. Every morning, Yuri’s arrived at the rink with Lilia only to find Victor already on the ice, going over footwork and spins while Yakov barks at him from the sidelines. And every evening when he leaves, Victor is still there, Katsuki’s dark head visible at the barrier as he watches his fiancé tighten his new programs.

Good, Yuri thinks savagely every time he sees Victor working long hours. Let _him_ catch up to _me_.

It’s a Tuesday, and Yuri’s ride home is held up as Lilia goes over choreography with Mila in the small rinkside ballet studio. Yuri reclines on the floor in the rink’s lobby, head propped against his bag of gear as he shoots a text to Otabek. It’s nearly 10 in Almaty, so there’s no guarantee Otabek will be awake to text him back. Sure enough, after five minutes have crawled by without a reply, Yuri sighs, switching over to Neko Atsume.

The day has left him drained, but in the best way. His legs feel turned to rubber after the number of times he’s run through his jump sequence, every muscle and sinew in his body groaning after a particularly rigorous session at the barre when Lilia put his flexibility through its paces. He’s exhausted, but it’s _good_. The kind of exhaustion that comes when he knows he’s given today his all, in the hopes of victory at the European Championships a few weeks from now.

It’s just. Yuri’s _really_ looking forward to his bed.

He doesn’t remember drifting off, there in a heap on the floor; but he must have, because the next thing he knows, he’s being jolted back to alertness with a sharp call of “Yuri!”

He struggles to his feet, his back soldier-straight. “Ma’am!”

Lilia is massaging her temple with one hand, clearly still stressed after the practice with Mila. “Let’s go,” she says, never one to mince words. “Get off the floor.”

Yuri rushes to obey, pulling his things together and hefting his gear bag over his shoulder. Lilia looks back to see him following her, and her eyes drift to the floor with a scoff.

“So sloppy, Yuri Mikhailovich. The jacket too! Come!”

Jacket? Yuri’s already wearing his heavy winter coat, and his skating windbreaker is safe in his bag. He looks at the spot where Lilia’s gaze had lingered, confused, only to find a mess of black fabric tangled around his feet. He picks it up, shakes it out –

This isn’t his, but he recognizes it immediately. The distinctive black and blue pattern of the warmup jackets worn by Japanese skaters.

Yuri bristles, shoving Katsuki’s jacket into his own bag. Honestly, can’t the man be more careful with his possessions? Now _he’s_ got to be responsible for this jacket.

It’s not until he’s bundled into Lilia’s backseat, trundling through evening flurries back to her apartment, that he notices someone’s tagged him in an Instagram post. He flicks the app open to find, his eyes going wide with horror, a photo of himself, fast asleep on the floor, mouth agape as his small body curves protectively around his gear bag.

 

[image]  
6,940 likes  
_@v-nikiforov Found someone worn out from a hard day of training! ^3^ #skatelife #stpetersburg @yuri-plisetsky #katsukiyuuri_

Yuri fumes, ready to dash off a furious comment at Victor’s violation of his privacy, when he takes a second look at the picture. The black skating jacket – Katsuki’s jacket – someone had draped it over his shoulders like a blanket. Presumably the jacket’s owner had; Katsuki always seems more worried about people catching a chill than Yuri thinks strictly necessary. The fact that Victor has tagged his fiancé in the photo seems to confirm his suspicion.

The unexpected kindness of the gesture stops Yuri in his tracks. He takes a long look at the photo.

By the time they arrive home, Yuri’s commented on the post.

 

 _@yuri-plisetsky          Tell Katsudon I’ll give his jacket back in the morning.  
_ _@yuri-plisetsky          Also, delete this._

 

\--

 

3.

 

The rink is scattered with skaters, most of them warming down after a tough morning practice. Yuri glides through the end of his short program, muscle memory taking him through the step sequence. Sure, he holds the world record thanks to this program. That’s no good reason to get complacent. It’s no good unless he can recapture the same feelings he felt during that final, somehow.

He goes into the final spin, movements fluid as ever, and he closes his eyes, and tries to understand. _Really_ understand. Tries to let go of his greed, his drive to win, everything that’s defined him for his entire career, and instead feel the selfless love his program is supposed to evoke.

Dedushka. Yakov. Lilia. Yuuko. Otabek. And…

He goes into the final pose, clasped hands extending skyward from his chest like he’s offering his very heart up to God. The sound of one person applauding from the side of the rink draws him from his trance, and he looks over, chest still heaving with exertion.

“Wow,” Katsuki says, looking utterly transported. “Now I’m _really_ sorry I missed seeing this at the Grand Prix. You’ve come so far since we competed in Hasetsu.” 

Yuri braces himself automatically for a barb that never comes, then huffs out a laugh.

“So have you, piggy,” he says, skating to where Katsuki stands at the barrier. “To think you couldn’t even land a quad Salchow before you met me.”

“I never thanked you properly for that.” Katsuki’s head bows deeply. “I owe you a lot, Yurio.”

His pride sours at the sound of the nickname, but only a little. “I hate when people call me that,” Yuri mutters, resting one hand on the barrier so he can bend down and wipe ice shavings from his blades.

Katsuki cocks his head to one side. “Victor calls you that.”

“Only because asking him to stop will make him do it _more_.” Katsuki snorts, conceding the point. Yuri shakes his head.

“Don’t know how you put up with him,” he comments, leaning down to clean his other skate. “Granted, he’s been way less annoying since you showed up, but…”

Katsuki gives a sheepish grin in response, scratching the back of his head. “I find him charming,” he says, notes of fondness slipping into his voice. “That’s my trick, I guess.”

That just confuses Yuri even more. Then again, the whole thing’s always mystified him a little. Not the Victor-and-Katsuki thing; the _love_ thing. Between his mother’s short-lived relationships, Yakov and Lilia’s divorce, and Georgi’s tragic string of girlfriends, he’s never had much of a frame of reference for relationships like theirs. Yuri can’t imagine putting up with _anyone_ the way Katsuki deals with Victor’s drama. Let alone anyone ever finding Yuri, the Ice Tiger of Russia, _charming_.

He shakes himself, straightening as he puts both feet back on the ice.

“Call me Yura,” he offers after a brief hesitation. “Or Plisetsky, if you prefer. Victor and your sister are the only ones who can call me ‘Yurio’.” He rolls the vowels around in his mouth, making a face. It just sounds _wrong_.

Katsuki’s eyebrows rise as he seems to mull it over.

“Okay, Yura,” he says after a moment. “Does this mean you’ll start calling me ‘Yuuri-kun’ any time soon?”

Yuri winces. “Did you _want_ me to?” Honestly, what’s with the Japanese making nicknames _longer_ than regular names?

“Ahh… you’re right,” Katsuki nods. “After this long, I don’t know that I’d respond to anything but ‘Katsudon’ from you.” He starts walking toward the gap in the barrier, and Yuri glides along beside him, ready for a water break. “But really, Yura. Your step sequences have gotten much smoother over the season. I can tell you’ve been working hard.”

“I have,” Yuri says, his chest puffing out with pride. It’s always nice to have his work acknowledged, even as all of them like to pretend that they master their craft through natural, nebulous talent alone. “You ought to watch your back, Katsudon. By Worlds, I’ll be more than ready to make a run at your world record. You’ll _wish_ you’d retired after the GPF.”

There’s no heat behind that particular jab. Yuri knows too well how difficult it had been for Katsuki to make the decision to stay on. Knows his own role in making sure he would want to. Katsuki recognizes it for the playful banter it is, meeting Yuri’s challenge with one of his own.

“That’s fine with me,” he says, slipping off his skate guards. “Just know that I’m coming for _yours_.”

Yuri can’t hide his satisfied grin as he steps off the rink.

 

\--

 

4.

 

“Katsudon,” Yuri hisses into his phone, cupping his hand over his mouth and the receiver, “ _save me.”_

This was supposed to be a simple shopping trip on his day off. He’d gone to the Galeria for the first time in months, indulging in some of the filled licorice candies he’d always loved, stopping in an entertainment shop to see what classical and metal CDs were on clearance.

The leopard-spotted hoodie hanging in the window of one of the boutiques, though. That had been his downfall. Oh, it had been an _awesome_ find, well worth the price tag. But he’d barely even purchased the thing, posting a dressing-room selfie on his Instagram feed to celebrate his fortune, before Yuri’s Angels had started to swarm.

 _That_ would teach Yuri for tagging his location, for trying to give this tiny independent shop the Plisetsky bump. _That’d show him._

And now he’s trapped on the fifth floor of the shopping center, hiding in the labyrinth in some inane pirate-themed indoor amusement park called, ironically enough, “Happylon”. Cowering here, praying for the sweet release of death. Thank goodness he’s still small enough to climb through these plastic tunnels, even if they were clearly built for six-year-olds.

On the other line, Katsuki sounds a little lost.

“Yura, slow down, just… tell me where you are?”

With starts and stops, Yuri stammers out the full story. He’s never been good with fans recognizing him on the street, even in the best of circumstances. But it’s one thing if a stranger asks politely for a selfie after a competition, or if someone asks him for an autograph if they spot him in the produce section at Okei.

It’s entirely another to be subjected to the fervor of Yuri’s Angels, who positively _vibrate_ when they spot him, who literally sniffed him out through the alleys of Barcelona. Calling him “Yurochka” like they have any right to that kind of closeness. It goes too far beyond recognition of his accomplishments or talent; it’s the sense that they’re _entitled_ to him somehow, to his time and his touch, to his performance, to the fruits of his body. If casual fans’ approach makes him uncomfortable, the fervent pursuit of Yuri’s Angels makes Yuri want to vanish and reappear in an entirely different plane of existence.

He gets off the phone with Katsuki, only to find a little girl, maybe three or four years old, staring openly at him from a little way down the tunnel, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

“What!” he snaps, and the little girl starts, scurrying away from him with tears rolling down her cheeks. And yeah, he feels a little bad at that, but he is _not_ in the mood to be recognized at _all_ right now. He pulls up his hoodie, cinching the hood tight as he presses himself against the wall of the labyrinth, waiting for rescue.

There’s a clamoring from just outside the amusement park about half an hour later, making Yuri try even harder to shrink against the wall. He’s got a vantage point in this labyrinth near a curved plastic window, and if he tilts his head just right, he can see out without letting anyone potentially see his face. There’s a _huge_ crowd gathered there, seemingly clustered around somebody, but they’re wearing just enough animal print, aping his signature style, to make Yuri realize who they must be. His fingers dig deeper into his arm, bracing himself for contact –

Then knuckles rap on the window, and he flails in spite of himself.

“Yura!”

The familiar hiss makes him unfold, looking down at whoever’s gotten his attention. Katsuki stands there in his awful brown coat, giving him a stiff wave.

“Victor’s distracting them,” he says, gesturing to the crowd at Happylon’s gates; and sure enough, now that Yuri’s getting a better look, he can just see a distinctive silver head in the midst of the screaming fans. “The workers here are letting us out through the back. If you can… uh… get out of the playplace first?”

Katsuki’s word choice makes Yuri flush, suddenly hyper-conscious of his childish hiding place. “I didn’t want them to follow me in here,” he says defensively.

Katsuki folds his arms, nodding thoughtfully. “Fair strategy. I’d probably get stuck in there if I tried it.”

The Yuri from six months ago might have seized on that opening, called Katsuki a _fat piggy_ without thinking twice. The Yuri of today is too raw from being pursued by dozens of women twice his age through five stories of a shopping center. Too relieved at the arrival of his rescuers.

With a brief nod, he sets off on his hands and knees through the tunnels once more, eventually coming to the lip of a slide. His crash landing in a ball pit, full of blue and white balls meant to evoke the ocean, is possibly the least dignified thing he’s done all year, but he’s past caring, struggling back to his feet and clambering out, hunching near the place where Katsuki is waiting for him.

“Arigatou,” he murmurs, one of the few Japanese words he’s managed to retain. Katsuki simply nods, patting him once on the shoulder before steering him through the crowds to the back exit.

They stay anonymous all the way to the parking garage, where Katsuki and Yuri sit in Victor’s car in relative silence, Yuri still radiating tension from his spot in the backseat. Victor joins them after too long, looking flushed and exuberant. 

“Whew!” he gasps, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’ve got such an _enthusiastic_ fanbase, Yurio! Some of them were even disappointed to see _me_ instead of you _,_ can you believe it? Me! I never thought I’d see the day when—“

“Victor,” Katsuki says quietly, and it’s not a scolding, per se, but it still cuts Victor short. He glances to the backseat, where Yuri is shooting him his best glare. _Don’t you fucking dare, geezer,_ he’s repeating in his mind, hoping to somehow project those words into Victor’s brain. _Don’t you_ dare _say I’m lucky to have fans like those._  

Victor and Katsuki exchange a look, briefly. “Yurio,” Victor says, still in the same bright voice, “do you want to come watch a movie at our flat?”

Yuri has never wanted anything more. “I don’t care,” he says, still tense. “Anything. Let’s just go.”

(“Anything” turns out to be a _Mighty Ducks_ marathon, for a reason Yuri can’t hope to understand, but sandwiched between Victor and Katsuki on their sofa, a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table and a warm dog at his feet, he finds he’s able to breathe again.)

 

\--

 

5.

 

A week and a half before the European Championships, Yuri contracts cholera.

Okay, it’s a very bad cold, but it might as well be cholera for the fuss Lilia makes over it. 

“You are not,” she says while winding a scarf around her neck, on her way to the rink, “to leave this flat under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Yuri Mikhailovich?”

“With the championships coming up?” Yuri can’t help but protest – though it comes out too scratchy to truly threaten. “I _can’t_ , I have to train—“

“Your body is telling you to _rest_ ,” she says firmly, making Yuri’s jaw snap shut. Obviously, the subject is closed. Then Lilia softens, just a little. “You’ve been working so hard, Yuri,” she says, in a tone that passes for gentleness from Lilia. “Rest will do you good, give your body a chance to heal. One day will not give Georgi and Victor and the rest an advantage over you, I assure you.”

She’s right – she always is – and it’s enough to keep Yuri in bed, napping fitfully and gulping cough medicine, scrolling through channels to catch clips from inane talk shows and even more inane soap operas. It’s mind-numbingly dull, and he finds himself wishing Otabek were available to Skype just so he’d have someone to talk to. But of course, Beka’s training hard today, putting final touches on his programs for the upcoming Four Continents.

He’s just about to go digging through his laptop and find a horror film to fall asleep to when there’s a knock on the apartment door.

He shouldn’t be surprised to see who he sees through the peephole, and yet somehow, he is.

“Yura!” Katsuki looks cold and windswept, standing on Yuri’s doorstep clutching a number of plastic bags. “Lilia told me where you were today. Do you mind if I come inside?”

Yuri’s stunned enough that he steps aside, letting Katsuki into the apartment.

“What the _fuck,_ Katsudon!” he protests once he’s recovered, rising ire making his voice even squeakier than normal. “Why aren’t you at the rink?”

“My coach gave me the afternoon off,” Katsuki says easily. It only makes Yuri groan. _Victor_. Of course. Figures he’d let sentiment override common sense, even if it’s just for Yuri’s sake.

“Your coach is an idiot,” he grumbles.

That makes Katsuki look back at him, pausing in his efforts to unpack the bags he’s brought.

“I…” He looks genuinely uncertain. “I can go, if you want me to.”

Somehow the wishy-washiness is even more annoying than his intrusion.

“I _want_ you,” Yuri grumbles, “to take your training seriously, for once. Beating you at Worlds means nothing if you don’t, and you’ll never get to Worlds if you bomb 4C.”

Katsuki just bites his lip, seeming to consider this. Yuri crosses his arms, turning his head as he tries to stifle a cough.

“How am I not taking my training seriously?” Katsuki’s forehead is creased with confusion. Yuri rolls his eyes.

“You’re _here_ , for one thing,” he grumbles. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m sick. If you catch my cold before heading to Gangneung…”

He trails off mid-sentence as Katsuki fishes in his coat pocket, pulling out a surgical mask and slipping it over his ears. Of _course_ he’s got one of those on him. Of course.

“I’ve got a few weeks until Four Continents,” Katsuki says, voice muffled by the mask. “I feel good about my chances, and so does Victor. Besides, I wanted to check on you.” 

“It’s not like I was lonely,” he says, though he flushes all the same. Katsuki knows as well as he does that all his friends are skaters, too busy training today to talk to him. And his cat hasn’t been the best conversation. “So… so what did you bring, anyway?”

A lot, as it turns out. There’s a huge takeout container of chicken soup from the cafeteria a few blocks from Lilia’s place, a deck of cards, Yuri’s favorite flavor of lozenge, some board games, and even a few paperback novels from Victor’s place (“I tried to pick ones you might like,” Katsuki explains). It’s more than enough to keep Yuri entertained for a few days – not that he plans to be gone from the ice for quite that long.

Yuri is silent once Katsuki’s finished showing him everything. Katsuki shifts his weight, nervous.

“Yura?”

Yuri still doesn’t answer. He’s spent all year trying to understand agape. That selfless, self-sacrificing love for another person. By now, it’s easy to recognize it in others – in his grandfather’s pirozhki, in Otabek’s silent support, in the way Victor had thrown himself between Yuri and a hundred rabid fangirls. In the way Katsuki stands here now, arms full of gifts for Yuri, wanting nothing but for him to feel better.

It’s easy to recognize, by now. But Yuri doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to demonstrate it as freely as Katsuki is at this moment.

“Yura?” Katsuki repeats, cocking his head as he looks down at him. “Do you want me to heat you up some soup?”

Yuri inhales deeply, his fingers tangled in the front of his sleep shirt. Takes a long moment to work out what he wants to say.

“How do you do this, Katsuki?” he finally manages. “I never – I hardly ever – I’m not _nice_ to you. I’m not nice to anyone. But you keep being nice to me anyway. Why?”

He wants to know if there’s a secret to the things Katsuki does. Yuri’s become a master at _performing_ agape, if his world record is any indication. He’s still not convinced he knows the first thing about _showing_ it, not for real.

But for Katsuki, it’s as effortless as landing a quad Salchow is for Yuri.

Katsuki looks like he’s taking Yuri’s question seriously, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as he thinks it over.

“There isn’t a reason,” he finally tells Yuri. “For family, there doesn’t need to be a reason.” The edges of his surgical mask crinkle a little like he’s smiling under it. Yuri finds himself blinking hard.

“Oh,” he simply croaks. Katsuki reaches across the table, patting his hand.

“So,” he says. “Soup?”

Yuri nods stiffly, finding a seat at the table. _Family_. He’s not sure he knows what to do with that.

 

\--

 

+1.

 

The European Championships brings Yuri the strangest sense of déjà vu.

It had been almost exactly like this over a year ago, in Sochi. Standing in the men’s room right outside of Yuuri Katsuki’s stall. Bearing witness to his distress.

Katsuki isn’t crying this time, exactly. But he sounds close to it, repeating one word over and over.

“Daijoubu,” he hears the other man say, repeating the unfamiliar word under his breath. “Daijoubu, daijoubu…”

Yuri might not understand the word, but he sure as hell understands the tone. That breathless terror where oblivion seems only half a step away.

The Yuri from a year ago would have kicked the stall door in, demanded that Katsuki shape up or quit. A year ago, that had been the only form of motivation he’d understood.

This Yuri doesn’t kick the door in.

“Katsudon.” The word is sharp, tight, but there’s no heat behind it. He hears the man in the stall jump anyway. “Where is he?”

A couple of deep breaths. “Where… where’s who?”

“ _Victor,”_ Yuri says, impatient, because it’s clear Katsuki’s fiancé has upset him somehow. Impending performance or not, he’s not about to let that shit stand. “What’s he done to make you like this?”

In the echoing silence of the bathroom, Katsuki’s breath seems to stutter.

“Nothing,” and he sounds miserable. “Victor… Victor hasn’t done anything. Shouldn’t you be getting ready to skate?”

“I’m in the last group.” Yakov is almost definitely tearing the arena apart looking for him, but. This seems more important, somehow. Yuri leans against the bathroom counter, hands shoved into the pockets of his skating jacket. “If it’s not Victor, then what is it?”

More silence, punctuated only by the heavy breaths in the stall.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t Victor,” Katsuki finally says, almost too quiet for Yuri to hear. “Just that he didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yuri can feel his frown furrowing his eyebrows, because somehow that makes even less sense.

“Do I need to kick his ass or not?” he asks, genuinely baffled. There’s a rattling sound from inside the stall like Katsuki’s nearly fallen off the toilet.

“No, don’t--! He’s not the problem, he’s _perfect_ , it’s… it’s me…”

There’s a shivering in the air, a tension, and Yuri doesn’t know what to do to resolve it.

“Katsuki,” he says, trying not to spook him again, “come out here.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“…BecauseImhavingapanicattack and I don’t want you to see.”

Oh.

 _Fuck_.

Yuri’s never had to deal with this on his own before. He’s seen Katsuki like this before, just once, on his first day training in St. Petersburg. Yuri had only caught the barest glimpse of Victor squirrelling Katsuki away to some little-used corner of the rink where they’d huddled together for a long time, well out of Yuri’s earshot. All he’d been aware of was the cuddling and kissing, Victor holding Katsuki’s face close to his own as he’d murmured words only meant for the two of them.

Yuri can handle a competitive Katsuki, and he’s gotten used to one who offers kind gestures out of nowhere. He isn’t prepared to deal with a Katsuki who’s falling apart. He’s so, _so_ far out of his element that he might as well be in outer space.

“I’ll… go get Victor for you,” he offers, but Katsuki’s voice sounds like a shot.

“No!” It echoes, frenetic, through the bathroom, before Katsuki speaks again. “Yura, please… _please_ don’t bother him, don’t let him see me like this, I can’t upset him before the competition, I’m _fine_ , I can… I can get through this, just don’t _leave._ ”

Yuri freezes in place at those last words. He… he actually wants Yuri to stay? Brash, abrasive Yuri, who once tried to comfort Katsuki by screaming at him to retire?

He stands in the middle of the bathroom, arms curling in on his torso uncertainly.

“I’m… not good at this,” he offers. They both know that Yuri is really, really fucking _bad_ at this.

“It’s okay,” Katsuki says, his voice sounding weirdly distant. “Neither am I.”

Yuri doesn’t have the first clue what to do. Awkwardly, he settles on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the locked stall where Katsuki is still hiding. He hears him breathe, heavily. Hears a sniffle.

When Katsuki finally speaks again, he’s somewhat muffled, like he’s hiding his face in his hands.

“You were there at Russians,” he says. “He was… Victor was…”

“Yeah,” Yuri murmurs, remembering. The routines, he recalls, had been rough, not as polished as the other competitors, a couple of the jumps lackluster. But there had been an energy, a _joy_ , emanating from Victor that was unlike anything Yuri had ever seen before. His PCS had been so high that he’d walked away with the bronze, even after eight months off the ice.

“…awful,” Katsuki finishes, and Yuri reels back.

“What,” he says flatly. What the _fuck_. Sure, Yuri had outperformed him, and Georgi’s polished technical elements (coupled with his melodramatic, heartbroken keening) had caused him to squeak by Victor by a margin of less than a point. Physically, Victor hadn’t been at his best -- again, no wonder, since he'd announced his comeback less than two weeks prior to Nationals.

But Yuri would never have described his performance at Nationals as _awful_.

“He couldn’t even do his quad flip at the end of the FS,” he hears Katsuki whisper, apparently having a completely different conversation than Yuri was. “It was a _triple_. He couldn’t get the height he needed. He was too tired…”

Yuri frowns.

“So, what? You don’t believe he’ll do well tonight?”

Katsuki inhales deeply.

“No, I… I’m scared that… that if he doesn’t, it’ll be because of me. I kept him from the ice for half the season, forcing him to be my coach. And… and I’m the one who made him come back, too, but if he can’t come back all the way…? If Victor Nikiforov’s career ends because of _me…_?” The words are coming thicker now, Katsuki’s accent bleeding through as he starts to cry. “It’ll _kill_ me, Yura. It might actually kill me. God, I… I should have retired after Barcelona. No—after Sochi. I’ve made things too hard for him this way. I’ve been so selfish.”

Yuri is horrified, listening to what Katsuki has to say. _That’s_ why he was planning on retiring? So Victor could make a comeback? The very thought of quitting skating, walking away from the ice for good, for a reason so… so _fucking stupid_ leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Wait, no. Yuri pauses to reflect, knowing what he does about Katsuki. The way he doesn’t hesitate to give of himself for the people he loves. Yes, it makes perfect sense that Katsuki would think to sacrifice his career if it would save Victor’s. Doesn’t make it any less of a terrible decision.

And there’s more to his words, too. The way he fixates on Victor’s mistakes, perhaps not even noticing the artistry that Yuri himself had witnessed firsthand. The way he blames himself for his fiancé’s missteps.

“Have you talked to him about this?” Yuri can’t help but ask. The two of them communicate so effortlessly, or at least it seems to him. 

But Katsuki’s shoe, scuffling the floor, seems answer enough. “Not… in so many words.”

Yuri tucks his knees to his chest, pulling them closer as he thinks. 

“Katsuki,” he starts to say, then stops himself. “Yuuri,” he tries again, hoping he’s drawing out the U sound correctly. “Remind me what Victor’s theme for this season is.”

They both know it well, but he needs to make Katsuki say it. He hears the scrub of skin on skin as Katsuki wipes his eyes.

“Rebirth,” he says quietly. “It’s ‘rebirth’.”

Yuri nods, leaning his chin on his knees, thinking about what Victor is going to show the world this evening. The short program with that fiery costume, makeup around the eyes recalling a phoenix. The free skate with a costume that mirrors Katsuki’s, deep magenta where his is navy. The rough routines from Nationals, now polished until Victor practically _glows_ on the ice. The fervor with which Victor has worked these past several weeks, working his way back to his physical peak.

“I’ve been watching Victor skate since I was three,” he tells Katsuki. It’s his earliest memory, in fact: watching a Junior Grand Prix on his Dedushka’s old black-and-white television. Victor had been the same age Yuri is now, his long silver hair trailing behind him as he moved with graceful abandon on the ice. “I’ve never, ever seen him skate the way he did at Nationals. Not ever.”

“I know,” Katsuki says mournfully.

“No, you _don’t_ ,” Yuri snaps, because it’s clear he still doesn’t. “He was skating like… like…” He plucks fruitlessly at his chest, trying to find words to articulate what he means.

When he was still recovering from his cold, Yuri had pulled up old videos of Victor skating online, ones he’d analyzed dozens of times before. He’d used to marvel over the grace of his programs, the strength of his jumps and the fluidity of his step sequences. But on this latest viewing… he’d been drawn to the look on Victor’s face. Yuri still felt haunted by the hollowness he’d seen there, the way Victor’s eyes seemed to look right through the crowd.

Nothing like the way he is now, with his smile that looks like love personified. 

Everything’s been different since Katsuki came into their lives. The way Victor skates, looking like he’s flying across the ice, set free by it instead of caged. The way he actually engages with Yuri and Mila and Georgi during and after practice. The way he looks at the things and people around him – and actually seems to _see_ them. The way Victor laughs, _really_ laughs, now that Katsuki has come to live with him.

“I’d never realized,” he tries again, “that all those years I spent watching him, skating with him, trying to be like him… that all that time, he was so unhappy. I never noticed that, not until I saw him skating at Nationals last month and saw the difference.”

It had been an epiphany that had brought Yuri no small amount of shame, too. As Victor’s rinkmate, shouldn’t he have picked up on it sooner? Noticed that something, anything, was wrong? Tried to help him, if Yuri was really as selfless as his programs want to suggest? 

“For a long time,” Yuri says softly, resting his cheek on his knees, “he wasn’t… all there. And I didn’t know. Nobody did. Maybe… maybe even he didn’t.”

A deep exhale comes from inside the bathroom stall. “Vitya,” Katsuki whispers. It sounds like he might cry again.

“Watch him tonight,” Yuri says, not letting Katsuki indulge in his self-pity. “ _Really_ watch him. And you tell me if he isn’t ten times the skater he was before he met you.”

There is silence inside Katsuki’s stall.

Then, without warning, the door bangs open, making Yuri jump. Katsuki’s eyes are red, his face puffy, but his gait is determined.

“Where is he now?” he asks, running a paper towel under cool water, dabbing under his eyes. 

“Hell if I know,” Yuri says, having leapt to his feet. “Probably looking for you.” Katsuki’s expression turns stricken at this, and he tosses the paper towel in the bin.

“I’ve got to find him, I can’t let him…”

He’s halfway to the door before he pauses, turning back to Yuri. Then, without warning, Katsuki is striding back toward him, grabbing him in a tight hug.

“Spasibo,” he whispers, bowing so his forehead is touching Yuri’s shoulder. “Spasibo, Yura.”

“S-sure,” he says, unsure of what else to say. He’s reminded almost forcibly of the way Victor had grabbed him before the Grand Prix Final, the desperate words he’d heard in his ear. _Don’t let Yuuri retire_ , he’d begged Yuri then, barely a whisper. _I can’t do this without him._

Yuri sighs to himself, awkwardly patting Katsuki on the back. Honestly. He and Victor belong together. They’d drive anyone else mad.

He and Katsuki make their way through the skaters-only area, looking for their respective coaches. They find Yakov and Victor just outside of the changing area, Victor paler than Yuri’s ever seen him while Yakov looks about to have a coronary. Yakov has spotted him, is stalking toward him, before Yuri can even think of an explanation.

“Where have you _been_!” he barks, seizing Yuri by the scruff of the neck and getting about a foot from his face. “Vanishing before the championships like this! You’re getting complacent, Yurochka! I ought to have cinderblocks tied to your skates and have you perform like that!”

Yuri just barely manages to suppress an eyeroll, having received the same lecture too many times to count. Instead, he looks over Yakov’s shoulder at the naked relief on Victor’s face at Katsuki’s reappearance. Sees them exchange a tight, tender embrace. Sees Katsuki pepper soft kisses on Victor’s face, murmur something in his ear.

“What are you _smirking at_ , Yurochka?” Yakov gives him a shake, and Yuri grunts. “I’m giving you five minutes to get into your costume. I can barely look at you right now.”

He releases Yuri with a shove, but Yuri still feels light as he staggers his way to the locker room.

 

.

 

.

 

That night, Yuri performs _On Love: Agape_ for the sixth time. As he skates, he thinks of the people who love him. Dedushka. Yakov. Lilia. Yuuko. Otabek. Victor. Katsuki. This time, he focuses less on memories of the things they do for him. Instead, he tries to think of what he might do for them, given the chance. What he can possibly give them to show his love.

He breaks his own world record, that night in Ostrava.

And then history is made again, when Victor shatters that one a mere twenty minutes later.

Victor’s smile afterward is, at least, somewhat sheepish.

“Ah, Yurio,” he says, “I’d hoped you wouldn’t make my comeback quite so easy. Give an old man like me a bit of a challenge, won’t you?”

Katsuki is glued to his side, as he’s been ever since Victor stepped off the ice. The way he looks makes Yuri think – or at least hope – that he and Victor have managed to resolve some of what was making him so anxious earlier, in the bathroom.

“Give Yura a break,” he tells Victor, poking him gently in the ribs and making him squeak. “The way you skated tonight… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Victor turns toward Katsuki with undisguised delight.

“Did I manage to surprise you, zolotse?” 

The way Katsuki blushes makes Yuri feel like he’s intruding on something private. “You always do,” he murmurs, leaning in so his forehead is resting against Victor’s.

“I’m _right here_ ,” Yuri can’t help but remind them, and they pull apart just enough to look at him. He sighs, shaking his head, then points directly at Victor, issuing a challenge.

“Listen, Nikiforov, Katsuki,” he says, finger wavering between the pair of them. “We’re all making the podium at Worlds. I’ll be taking the gold, no question. It’s up to you two to decide which of you gets silver, you hear me?”

Victor and Katsuki look at one another for a moment, then back at Yuri.

“We’ll share it,” Katsuki decides, and Victor positively _coos_.

“A tie! Oh, Yurio! Isn’t it the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”

“I’m leaving!” he all but shouts, turning his back on the pair of them as they continue to make eyes at one another.

He’s no closer to understanding the love those two have, he thinks, than he was when he first arrived in Hasetsu.

But he thinks – he _thinks_ – that he might have a better idea, now, of what it really means to be someone’s family.

**Author's Note:**

> An absolutely RIDICULOUS amount of research went into this fic, because... I don't know how to write a fic without Googling literally everything, I guess? Here are some Fun Facts (tm):  
> \- The fic's timeline/locations was based on the 2016-2017 skating season.  
> \- Happylon is a real place in St. Petersburg, at least if Google can be trusted. Think a Russian Chuck-E-Cheese, but with more clowns and pirates.  
> \- I'm not actually Russian and have also never visited the country, so sorry if I fucked up any cultural references, especially with naming/patronymics.  
> \- Russian Nationals and Japanese Nationals are at the same time every year so Victor and Yuuri weren't able to go cheer each other on :((((((((((  
> \- This fic made me relive tenth grade by reminding me of all the math I forced myself to forget. Boo.  
> \- Before you say that Yuuri double majoring in college is probably unrealistic, please consider that I had two majors and two minors in school while dealing with major depression and anxiety. Probably still unrealistic, but hey.  
> \- I love Yuri Plisetsky and am desperate for him to have more friends ;___;
> 
> Translation notes:  
> \- Dedushka = Russian name for "grandpa".  
> \- Arigatou = thank you (obvs)  
> \- Daijoubu = it's fine/I'm fine/everything is okay/etc  
> \- Spasibo = thank you (also obvs)  
> \- Zolotse = my gold (why this is not a pet name in literally every Victuuri fic I will never understand)
> 
> I reblog tons of YOI fanart and cry a lot about how this show ruined my entire life and saved my entire soul on [my Tumblr](http://phoenixrei.tumblr.com). Come say hi!


End file.
